


the good things one possesses

by livenudebigfoot



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e21 Many Happy Returns, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Loneliness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:36:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese moves into his new apartment and has difficulty adjusting. Finch helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the good things one possesses

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write fic about how Finch totally bought Reese a love nest. I also wanted to write something for this prompt from Croik: _Finch topping. Not even topping from the bottom but properly topping_. I guess I could have written two fics, but I'm bad at multitasking, so this happened.

He hasn’t had a home for a very long time.

For the first hour in his new apartment, he is very still. He sits on the edge of the vast bed, tense, perched and poised to rise, crumpling the fine linen sheets between his fingers. He listens to the hum of the generator, the moaning of pipes, and the buzz of traffic and life outside. Gradually, these sounds fade. His ears adjust, and he begins to peel apart the layers. He hears running water, muted voices, the soft tread of feet.

He cracks a thin and wary smile. He has neighbors.

This makes him nervous.

He immediately gets up and strips the apartment for listening devices and cameras. He unscrews the grates on the ventilation shafts. He checks every corner, every appliance, the undersides of every piece of furniture. He finds nothing, which means Finch must have hidden them well.

The door is sturdy enough: deadbolt and chain. It’ll do to start. It’s the windows that worry him. Wide open wall-length windows offering a beautiful view of the park, or a beautiful target for a sniper.

Oh. How sweet. Finch bought him a death trap.

In the end, he brings takeout back to the apartment, eats it sitting on one side of his new kitchen table, staring balefully at the other, empty chair. He makes the bed with the comforter and pillowcase Finch thoughtfully left folded at the foot of the bed. He draws the curtains shut on the gaping windows and turns off the lights. He tries sleeping.

Instead, he just lies there, absorbing. There’s road work being done two blocks over. There’s a pair of drunks laughing in the park. The people next door have a cat.

The sheets he’s lying on have an absurdly high thread count.

He sleeps very little.

***

“What did you think of the apartment?”

Reese takes a long sip from his mug of coffee, rubs at the knot in the back of his neck. “It’s not what I expected. Thank you, Harold.”

“That doesn’t sound wholly positive,” Finch says flatly, eyes locked to one of many screens.

“It’ll take some getting used to,” Reese admits. “Still. Thanks.” He reaches out cautiously, squeezes one of Finch’s bony shoulders.

Finch barely moves, but his face colors slightly.

Reese spends the night on his feet, catching only brief snatches of sleep between surveillance and the occasional gunfight.

In some ways, it’s a relief.

***

Finch tells him to take some time off until the next number comes up, and he should really get some sleep but his heart is still pumping from the last one, so Reese decides it’s time to move in. He acquires a bundle of collapsed cardboard boxes and heads back to his old apartment. These walls, so chipped and drab and anonymous, have sheltered him since he first accepted Finch’s job offer. That was months ago, and yet he still feels no fondness for them, no twinge of regret in leaving them forever. There are no memories in this place.

He takes the row of dark suits from the closet, wraps them in plastic sheathes and leaves them on the hangers. He lays them out flat in the backseat of his (Finch’s, really) car. His personal cache of weaponry, all small, all innocuous, all with permits and excuses attached, is carefully tucked into unsuspicious looking cases and stowed in the trunk. From the kitchen, he takes his lone set of dishes: one plate, one bowl, one glass, one mug, one fork, one spoon, two knives (one for butter, one for steak). He takes the French press, takes the radio, even loads the stockpile of canned goods into a cardboard box because why waste a good thing?

He thinks there’s something homeless in him still. Something of the scavenger, the transient, the hoarder.

He bundles up his sheets with the intent of discarding them somewhere, gets the vacuum out and cleans one last time, goes over every surface with gloves and a roll of duct tape until he’s sure there isn’t a single fingerprint in the place.

In the end, it’s like he was never there.

The entire move takes a single trip. Everything he owns fits neatly into a borrowed four-door sedan, and when he makes a sharp turn the boxes still have room to shift.

***

It’s close to midnight and he’s still not sleeping. He’s not even trying anymore. At first he just walks, cup of coffee in one hand, gun in the other, round and round this space that is made all the more vast by the smallness of his possessions. But then the yawning, open weak spot of those damn windows starts to get to him, the idea that somewhere, somehow, the Machine can see his every movement, so he draws the curtains tight, and is transfixed by an idea. The lights in his apartment are down low, a warm and soothing glow that casts deep shadows, and he knows that from the outside, that inviting glow is seeping around the edge of the curtains and casting him in silhouette, making him painfully visible. He should turn the lights off, but the idea of sitting alone in the dark, unable to sleep in his own apartment, makes him sick.

The knock at the door makes him jump, gun cocked and at the ready in the instant it takes him to turn around. He creeps across the apartment, bare feet silent on the floor. He hits the light switch as he passes by, throws the whole room into darkness except the dim, pale glow of streetlights passing beneath the curtains. He approaches the door cautiously, risks a glance through the peephole.

Finch, eyes buggy and inquisitive and magnified by glasses, peers back.

Reese sighs with relief and opens the door.

Finch recoils a little as Reese swings the door inward, as though he didn’t expect it to open. He’s holding a long, thin paper bag in one hand and a potted fern in the other. He frowns, his eyes pass over into the darkness beyond Reese’s shoulder. “Oh,” he says, “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, that was just…” Reese shrugs, realizes he’s still holding his gun, flicks the safety back on. “Come in.”

Finch limps past him into the apartment. His gait is quick and nervous.

“What’s the occasion, Harold?” Reese asks as he hits the switch again and fills the room with light.

As Finch moves across the apartment, he forces himself to slow to the casual, ambling stroll of a guest admiring his host’s home, which strikes Reese as bizarre because he knows that Finch picked this place out himself, appraised every inch of it.

He realizes that Finch is following a script.

“Does there need to be an occasion, Mr. Reese?” he asks, setting the potted plant down on the kitchen counter. He takes a dark bottle of wine from the thin paper bag, sets that on the counter beside it. “I surmised from our conversation yesterday that you were having trouble settling in. I admit I don’t have much experience with this kind of thing, but I believe these are the usual gifts.” He gestures to the wine and the potted plant, gives a small, hopeless shrug.

Reese saunters toward him, forcing his own casual stride, puts the handgun and the cooling mug of coffee on the counter next to the gifts, leans there next to Finch. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to a housewarming either,” he admits.

Finch shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, eyes flickering down.

Reese reaches for the neck of the wine bottle, tilts the whole thing back to read the label. It’s nearly meaningless to him.

“It’s a good year,” Finch fills in.

“Of course it is, Harold. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” Reese makes eye contact, smiles in a way he hopes isn’t predatory. “Want to break it open?”

“Ah.” His eyes widen slightly, face flushes. “I suppose…you’re sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?”

“Not at all.” Reese grips the neck of the bottle, frowns. “I don’t own a corkscrew.”

Finch freezes, pats his jacket, and produces one from an inside pocket. “I. Um. I thought you might not have one,” he murmurs.

That’s how Reese knows for sure.

He empties the coffee mug in the sink, gives Finch the only glass he owns, fills them both.

Finch wrinkles his nose as Reese takes a sip from the mug, red wine still laced with coffee grains. “Really, Mr. Reese?”

Reese shrugs. “I did tell you I travel light.”

He can see Finch’s eyes scanning over the cabinets, the gears in his head spinning as they calculate the cost of a suitable set of wine glasses.

Reese takes another sip. The wine’s taste is deep, fruity, marred with bitterness. He thinks it’s good. He doesn’t have the palette for this.

Finch’s gaze continues to wander, following the smooth topography of the apartment, occasionally broken by an empty box or the closet hanging open, still two thirds empty. The possessions Reese brought with him only serve to make the space seem larger.

“Somehow it never occurred to me that you’d have so little to bring with you,” he says softly. He raises the glass to his lips, takes a long drink. He looks terribly sad. “It’s within your allowance, you know. I have to admit I don’t know much about your taste in décor, so I made a few educated guesses. If it’s not to your taste, you can redecorate. I won’t be offended.”

“It’s fine, Harold.” He takes a long, serious drink, tops himself off. “It’s all I need.”

Finch glances at him sidelong. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“Really. It’s not necessary.” Reese stares into the wine in his mug. “Almost everything I own is really yours,” he says finally.

“Does it bother you?”

“Maybe,” Reese says.

Finch shifts closer to him along the counter. “Mr. Reese, I can’t help what you think of me, but you should know that I don’t consider any of these things to be mine. They’re gifts. I gave them to you.”

Reese furrows his brow, turns the mug in his hand.

“What _is_ bothering you?” Finch asks. It’s a gentle question, coaxing.

Reese sighs. He draws himself up, makes himself flat and cold and uncaring. “What bothers me, Harold,” he begins, “is that I don’t think you drove out here at midnight just to give me a housewarming gift. What bothers me is that we’ve been exchanging small talk for ten minutes now, and you still haven’t reached the point.”

Finch is downcast, shaking slightly, breath unsteady. “What would you have me do, Mr. Reese?”

“What you came here for.” The mug hits the counter with a harsh click and he faces Finch completely, shoulders squared, stance like a challenge. “Do it or get out.”

Finch hesitates, and for a moment Reese thinks he’s scared him off, he pushed too hard, but then Finch takes a step forward and brushes a still, small kiss over his lips.

It’s all very quiet. Reese realizes they’re both holding their breaths as Finch pulls back. “Was that all?” he asks, forcing nonchalance.

“Yes. No.” Finch runs his hand nervously through the fine, pointed ruff of his own hair. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Hey.” Reese reaches out for him, but doesn’t really touch him, just bends his hand to the curve of the air around Finch’s wrist, lets the faint glow of his body heat be the grip. “Finish what you started.”

Finch takes off his glasses and tucks them in the pocket of his overcoat, slides a hesitant hand around the back of Reese’s neck and lets his fingers curl in the short, silvery bristles at the base of his skull. His eyes are very wide, irises milky blue and opaque. The two of them, Reese and Finch, they try so hard to hide things from each other and it’s so painfully, blatantly obvious.

In the end, Reese closes the gap.

In a lot of ways, it’s an exercise in restraint. This kiss is quiet, exploratory, a gentle introduction and Reese wants to grip Finch by the shoulders and deepen it, but he thinks he knows how this game is played so as soon as he takes control, he gives it back to Finch, lets him guide.

After only a little nudging, Finch starts to pull Reese across the apartment towards the bed.

After what must be only a few seconds of halting progress, Reese thinks this apartment might be two miles wide. It’s his impulse to pick him up, drag him to the bed, because at this stage Reese’s blood is pumping with a rabid, sleepless energy, but he knows that if he did that, right now, at this point, it would kill this thing dead.

So they move at the pace of Finch’s limp.

Finally they hit the mattress, and there’s this quick, furious struggle of clothes, and Finch won’t let Reese take off his pants until he’s pulled a condom and a flat foil sachet of KY from his pocket, so Reese takes a moment to take off Finch’s priceless Italian leather shoes, finds particular pleasure in flinging them carelessly away. Finch cries out, tries to remain finicky about the Armani suit being peeled off him and tossed to the floor in a rumpled pile, protests until Reese tugs the dark, silk boxers down to his knees and puts the condom on Finch with his mouth.

That shuts him up, at least.

He sucks at the latex, eyes cast upwards to watch Finch squirm and shudder, eyes shut tight, one hand curling in the bedclothes, one hand tight in Reese’s hair, not pushing or anything, just holding on. Reese keeps at it just a moment longer, enough to get Finch riled up, but not long enough to push him over the edge. Reese sits up, lips wet with spit, smile going cruel at the edges, and Finch, flushed and overwrought but still cognizant enough to know when he’s being fucked with, rolls his eyes and hands Reese the sachet of lube.

Reese lies back to prepare himself, turns his head to the side to watch Finch, who is looking him up and down with a kind of breathlessness. Reese is struck by the way they look together in this low light, like photonegatives. His own skin smooth and even and tanned, disrupted by rippling white remnants of wounds, old bullet wounds like craters in the moon. Finch’s skin is pallid, translucent, bluish veins visible just below the surface, broken up by the orderly horror of dark pink surgical scars. Both of them have faint paunches, Finch, the soft, delicate rise of stomach muscles fallen into disuse; Reese, the solid, boxy mass that is the mark of a powerful man getting on in years.

They’re both getting on in years.

They’ve both lost so much.

Reese pushes deeper inside himself, feels his fingertip roll over his prostate and shivers, knows he’s ready.

Finch slides into position on top of him, face to face, hands on either side of Reese’s head, hips between Reese’s thighs. It’s not what Reese expected. “Are you sure about this position?” he asks, noting the light tremor in Finch’s arms as he supports himself.

Finch looks down at him and there’s a brief glimpse of that cool professionalism. “Of course. Are you?”

There’s something else going on here. Reese just isn’t sure he’s qualified to understand what it is. Reese grips the back of his own thigh, pulls the leg back so he’s wide open, and Finch wordlessly pushes in.

He sets an even, measured pace, nothing hard or rough about it, but it’s been a while for Reese so that’s enough for right now. He slides a hand between their bodies, touches himself as he watches Finch loom over him. His face is screwed up, pink with exertion. His arms are shaking. His wasted muscles bunch and strain with every thrust. He might be in pain.

“Finch,” he whispers. “You okay?”

He doesn’t get an answer. Finch just pushes his hips forward with a sudden jolt and hits that spot inside him, and Reese forgets what answers are.

Reese has underestimated him. Finch has a knack for this. And now that he knows where it is, he hits that spot on every thrust. It’s just wave after wave of these savage electric jolts of pleasure and Reese feels himself nearing the brink. His hand between them tightens on his cock, the other hand digs flat, square fingernails into Finch’s back. He can feel his orgasm building, his hips begin to twitch, an eager spasm.

Finch, eyes closed tight, clenches his fists in the covers and pushes.

Reese simply folds in on himself. His arms wrap tight around Finch’s body, nails biting into skin, legs lock around Finch’s hips and pull him in closer, and Finch’s arms give out with a shudder and he falls against Reese as they shudder together, Reese moaning low into Finch’s shoulder.

Finch gives a few weak final thrusts, whimpers softly, and the both of them go still.

It takes some time to disentangle themselves, some more time before they feel comfortable exchanging words.

“Are you staying?” Reese asks, staring straight up, listening to Finch shift and stretch on the bed beside him.

“For a while,” Finch says. His voice is flat, betraying nothing. “Until I catch my breath.”

Reese rolls onto his side, facing away from him.

There are many things Reese doesn’t know about tomorrow. He doesn’t know that in the morning, Finch will be gone, but coffee will be brewed. He doesn’t know that, tomorrow, their work will go on uninterrupted, as though nothing has changed. He doesn’t know that when he gets home, there will be a crate waiting for him, and the crate will be filled with wine glasses.

For a long time, he won’t know that this place has the potential to become more than an apartment, to become the place where he _lives_.

For now, he sleeps.


End file.
